


Intertwined

by cloud_wolfbane



Series: Intertwined [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Gen, M/M, One Shot Collection, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:06:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1682762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloud_wolfbane/pseuds/cloud_wolfbane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of one shots of different meetings between Sherlock and John as soul mates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Vision Remix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ilovebeingme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilovebeingme/gifts).



> Like most of my fics, this troupe is a weakness of mine, so this is where I will place all my random soul mate ideas. 
> 
> This first one is a remix of how my Vision story might have gone.

****

Vision Remix

The building looks like every other pretentious government building Sherlock had spent his life trying to avoid. The entrance is oppressive dark brick surrounded by towering white columns. The inside is pale marble marked with the Vision Center seal of the all seeing eye. 

Sherlock looks around, taking in the scent of newly laid wax on the floors and bleach from the newly cleaned bathroom. He curled up his lip in disgust. 

“Such distaste, brother?” Mycroft comments, stepping up to his side. 

“This is a ridiculous farce, I have no interest in events that may occur,” Sherlock snaps, shoving his hands into the pockets of his great coat. 

“It’s a law, brother mine, and if you ever want to work with the police than you need your vision posted in the archives.” 

“I know,” Sherlock snarls, “That’s why I’m here.” 

“The room is ready for us,” Lestrade says, walking up to them with Sally at his side. 

Sherlock had met Lestrade six months ago when he had helped him solve a case on his university campus. Solving the case had been exhilarating, and Sherlock had finally decided what he wanted to do. He was going to be a consulting detective, the only one in the world, but first he had to complete this mandatory Vision record. 

Lestrade led them down the long corridors to one of the Vision rooms. One of the so-called nurses was standing outside with the Vision medication. Sherlock read her history in moments. She wasn’t actually a nurse, just a pretty face to make the patrons more relaxed. The scuffs on her shoes and the stain on her shirt showed the job didn’t pay well and she spent her nights working as a waitress. The deductions helped, made him less...tense. 

“Do you need me to retrieve the stenographer, sirs?” she asks. 

Mycroft steps forward, tapping his blasted umbrella on the marble floor. “No, I will be recording the vision.” 

“Yes, Sir,” She nods and holds up the tray for Sherlock, “Please drink the entire vial in one go. Wait five minutes and then enter the Visionary.” 

Sherlock snatches the medication and gulps it down. It slides down like syrup with a heavy dose of medicinal flavors, they are too convoluted to identify and the flavors are masked with artificial grape. 

The five minutes seemed endless. Sherlock spends them watching the clock, avoiding looking at the people he would share his Vision with. His stomach rolls uncomfortably and his fingers twitch, the craving for cocaine is almost unbearable, but he could not undertake the Vision without a system clean for at least three days. 

When the time is up, they walk into the Visionary. The room is blank, white walls with a white floor and a bright light shinning down on it all. Sherlock feels pain build behind his eyes, his heart beat speeds with the knowledge that soon he will be seeing scenes of the future. 

Lestrade and Sally stand unobtrusively at the back of the small room, but Sherlock can feel their gazes on his back. Mycroft, his usual nosy self, stands at his side with a small notebook and pen. As if he didn’t have eidetic memory. 

The light overhead flickers, the room dimming as the wall in front of them seems to warp, the walls rippling. Sherlock has a sudden wave of vertigo, his stomach rolling with discomfort. 

The start of the Vision is actually sound. A sharp call rings through the room, “SHERLOCK!” Sherlock startles, he doesn’t recognize the voice, but the person - older male - sounds desperate, worried. He has never heard anyone say his name like that. 

The next voice, just as desperate, is his own, “JOHN!” 

The room flickers with color, the Vision solidifying on the wall. There is a man on screen, he’s blond haired with streaks of grey. Haircut and tan says military, cane says recently invalided. “Who’d want me for a flatmate?” he asks, voice overlaying with Sherlock’s saying the same thing. 

The scene _shifts_ , the blond man is grinning, it lights up his expressive face. “That’s amazing.” 

An older Sherlock -around ten years older- is sitting next to him, sharing the grin. “Really?”

“Course it is,” the man chuckles. 

_Shift._

Sherlock and the man are running through the dark, London streets together. They share adrenaline fueled glances, eyes bright against the night. 

The room flickers and its a close up of Sherlock’s face, now a few years older than before. He looks so happy, so _pleased_ with the world, Sherlock’s certain he has never looked like that before. The close up zooms out, revealing the blond, who he suspects is John. They are holding hands gazing into each others’ eyes as Mycroft stands behind them, reading from a bible. There is an exchange of rings and kisses, and Sherlock thinks his heart has stopped beating.


	2. A Stich in Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft once read that people with short Timers will have a hard life and need their Soulmate sooner than most, which is why he was startled when his little brother was born with such a short time to wait.

A Stitch in Time

Mycroft was seven when his little brother was born. He was hesitant, seven years as an only child made him nervous to let another in, but he was so lonely. After hours and hours of waiting he was let into the hospital room. Mummy looked exhausted, but happy. There was a small squirming bundle in her arms.

“Come here and say hello to little Sherlock,” Mummy waved him over. 

Sherlock looked like every other baby, he was small and wrinkled with bright red cheeks. His eyes were wide and a strange bluish-grey that took up most of his tiny face. He was bald except for a tiny tuft of pale fuzz. 

Mycroft thought he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “Hello, Sherlock,” he greeted, holding out his arms. 

“Support his head,” Mummy said as she handed him over. 

Sherlock grumbled in agitation at the move, but quickly settled into Mycroft’s arms. He waved one fat fist, reaching out for his big brother. Mycroft caught his arm, peering curiously at his wrist. Like every baby, he was born with a Timer. There were a series of 6 black digits along his wrist slowly counting down. 

When Mycroft had been born his numbers had been blank dashes, it wasn’t until he was four that his Timer started counting down; a sign that his soul mate had finally been born. Mycroft’s numbers left him with twenty years to wait. 

“Mummy?” Mycroft called, taking a closer look at the small numbers on his brother’s wrist. They read six years and eight months. For a moment, Mycroft felt an irrational surge of jealousy. 

 

_Six Years and Eight Months Later…_

At first, Mycroft had been jealous about his brother’s short Timer. He had once read that people who met their soul mates early usually had rough childhoods and needed theirs earlier than most. 

Mycroft had thought it was a ridiculous article, until his brother had started school. Sherlock had all the intelligence and deductive reasoning of his older brother, but none of the tact. Sherlock barreled into social situations like the metaphorical bull in a china shop and did just as much damage. He spoke about every affair and dirty secret that came to mind and no amount of yelling or fights could persuade him otherwise. 

While Mycroft thought himself lonely surrounded by all the idiot goldfish, Sherlock was a veritable pariah, he wasn’t just separate from the rest, he was shunned. At six years old, Sherlock was perhaps the only child in primary school that regularly skipped. He hated school and his peers, and no matter how much he would deny it, he was petrified of meeting his other half. 

The day of the auspicious occasion was a Saturday, so mummy and father took them to a nearby park. Mycroft was worried, he didn’t want Sherlock to miss his mate, but mummy assured him that they would meet. 

So Mycroft sits on a blanket in the middle of the park while reading a book, but really spending the time keeping an eye on his wayward sibling. Sherlock seems unaware of his dwindling Timer, or at least desperately trying to seem unaware.

The park is pretty busy, filled with parents and children, Sherlock’s mate could be anyone. With his Timer running when he was born, the mate has to be around the same age or older, which crosses out anyone younger, but that isn’t much help. 

Mycroft keeps a mental tally of the Timer, but even he gets distracted, pulled into conversation with his Mummy. They are chatting about a new article in Mathematics Magazine when Sherlock yells. 

Whether the man approached Sherlock or Sherlock said something he shouldn’t have is unclear, but there is an older man looming over him, holding his arm in vice-like grip. 

Mycroft scrambles to his feet, and he and Mummy are running towards the man. They needn’t have worried. A young boy around nine-years-old raises a tree branch like a bat and slams it into the man’s head with a sickening crunch. The man falls like a stone, knocked unconscious. 

“Are you alright, love?” Mummy fusses, kneeling down so she can get a better look at Sherlock’s arm. 

Sherlock doesn’t even glance at her, his gaze fixed on the boy. 

The boy has blond hair, or he probably does, he’s filthy, dressed in too large clothes and covered in at least a weeks worth of dirt. He has an old bandaid across one cheek and new and old cuts along his hands. Mycroft notes the discoloration and slight size difference on his right arm that speaks of at least a month in a cast. All of these deductions leads to two things, abuse at home and a runaway. 

All of this is not the most important thing Mycroft notices about the boy, however. The most important thing, is that when he and Sherlock lock eyes, there is a persistent beeping from their respective Timers. 

“Oh,” Mummy exclaims, offering the boy a wide smile. 

Sherlock peers at his arm. The Timer flashes black zeros before flickering out and being replaced by the name John. 

On the boy’s hand, John presumably, his own Timer blinks with Sherlock. John stares at it for a moment before looking up, lips twitching with repressed laughter. “Sherlock? What kind of name is that?” 

Sherlock scowls, “Its more unique than John.” 

“Yeah, that’s true,” he chuckles, seemingly unfazed by Sherlock’s gruffness. 

Mycroft resists wringing his hands; how did his brother get paired up with this ruffian? 

“I should get going,” John murmurs, gaze darting about nervously. 

Sherlock steps forward quickly, grasping his sleeve. “You could stay with me, we have a guest room. We could play pirates, you could meet my dog Redbeard, he’s really friendly. You like dogs.” 

“Ah…” John hesitates, glancing at Mycroft and mummy, “I should get home.” 

“You ran away, I can tell!” Sherlock argues. “You broke your arm at least a month ago, but you waited for the cast to come off before running away. You left at least a week ago, which means you covered your tracks really well or your guardian hasn’t bothered to really look for you. My guess is the later.” 

John freezes, his body taut with tension. Mycroft worries Sherlock has just chased away the one person meant for him, but John turns to Sherlock with wide eyes and asks, “How did you know that?”

Sherlock explains all of the points Mycroft noticed and how he came to his deductions. 

“That’s amazing,” John grins, whole face lighting up with amazement. 

“Why don’t you come home with us, John? Sherlock is right about the guest room and I can hardly let you wander off into the streets, dear,” Mummy offers, her voice soft and soothing like speaking to a feral animal. 

John shakes Sherlock off his sleeve so he can hold his hand. His cheeks flush with embarrassment, but he nods in agreement. “Okay,” he murmurs, suddenly shy. 

Mycroft is stunned, and it takes him a ridiculously long time to follow after everyone heading home. Sherlock found a match that could call him amazing at his most obnoxious. He looks at his own Timer, thirteen years and counting. He trails his fingers over the flickering numbers and thinks; it just might be worth the wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by the movie Timer, I love the concept, but have a mixed opinion of the movie.


	3. The Wings of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock chooses the Army over working in the Government with his brother. Imagine his surprise when he meets his mate under the Afghani sun. Wingfic

The Wings of War

“Lieutenant Holmes, Lieutenant!” 

“For God’s sake, What?” Sherlock snarls, lifting himself off his bunk. 

“You’re needed at the Hospital, Captain’s got a case for you” the soldier says, some Private Sherlock doesn’t recognize. 

“Fine, fine, I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he waves the man off. 

“Yes, Sir,” the soldier salutes and leaves. 

Sherlock looks around his CHU. The place is a mess of equipment strewn about the small room. His small air conditioner is whirring in complaint, occasionally giving bursts of dust from the grates. The air is heavy with heat and dust clogs his throat and lungs. Sherlock has zero interest in going to the hospital, but at least he knows the hospital’s air will be running better than his wheezing box. 

He has to dig in his locker for a moment to find a clean PCS top. Its one of the new ones he was issued before deployment, the fabric is stiff and scratchy. It takes some effort to fit even his small wings through the standard opening in the back. His pale grey feathers are all askew, he needs to have them preened, but there aren’t many of his fellow soldiers that he would trust with job. 

Either way, he doesn’t have time to dawdle. He shoves into his coat and boots, straps on his thigh holster and attaches his browning handgun. The holster is better than the ridiculous M-16 rifles all the lower enlisted are running about with, but the holster chaffs against his groin. All in all, he has never been so uncomfortable, even when he was living rough on the streets of London. 

The trip to the Hospital is barely 50 yards through K pod and across the street, but it’s 54 celsius outside and he’s sweating before he even closes the door to his CHU. A few soldiers nod polite greetings to him as he passes, but he is surrounded by Americans on all sides and they don’t recognize his uniform or his rank. 

The weather is unbearable and the darkening skies in the distance tell of a coming dust storm. For the millionth time, Sherlock curses his meddling brother and his own mad decision to take the Army over rehab and a cushy government job. 

The Hospital is its usual bustle of activity, soldiers hurrying about. Most of them are like Sherlock, their wings small and grey, a sign that they have yet to meet their mates. Others have wings of varied sizes and colours based on the strength of their bonds. 

Sherlock dodges around a three foot span of macaw wings and then a 6 foot set of peregrine falcon wings trailing a ruffled sergeant. At the end of the hallway he dips into the lab. Sgt. Hunt is behind the computer, he looks busy, but really he’s playing Candy Crush on Facebook. 

“Hey, LT, haven’t seen you in here in awhile,” he greets with a grin. Sgt. Hunt is paired with a male, warrant officer, they share a set of eight foot Cerulean Warbler wings. They are always carefully preened and kept clean, of course if Sherlock had wings large enough to fly he imagined he would keep them just as neat. 

“Do you have any expired units for me?” Sherlock asks. 

“Yeah, hold on,” Sgt. Hunt wanders into the back room and grabs one of the small Collin’s box they usually keep platelets in. “I saved these for you just in case.” 

Sherlock takes the box, digging through the contents. Its filled with two bags of type O + red blood cells and a bag of AB-. “Thank you,” Sherlock acknowledges, tucking the box beneath his arm. The units are a week expired, which is the only reason he is allowed to have them, but still fresh enough for a few experiments.

He takes the box down to the morgue, where Captain Lestrade is waiting for him. The man used to work for Scotland Yard, but joined the military nearly a decade ago after meeting his mate, a female soldier that worked for bomb disposal. Sherlock had only met her once, but she was a little spitfire, barely 155cm tall. They were a strange mix, but the ten-foot, golden eagle wings they shared spoke of a particularly strong bond. 

“Took you long enough Holmes, I thought I was going to have to send out the cavalry,” is the Captain’s greeting. 

“The body is hardly going anywhere, Captain,” Sherlock shrugs, taking time to put his blood in the fridge. 

“No, but the murderer might,” Lestrade scowls, crossing his arms in front of his chest. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes before taking a look. The body is a twenty-five year old white male with a gunshot wound to the lower left quadrant. The bullet had gone through his side and out the back, rupturing the kidney and colon. The death would have been a slow one, tortuous blood loss. His wings are about five foot, tucked carefully behind his back. They are covered in dried blood, the substance to hard to wipe from his cardinal feathers. 

“This was the bullet,” Lestrade says, holding up a glass vial with the bullet suspended in solution. “Its from an M-9 handgun.” 

“Hmm, where was he when he was shot?” Sherlock asks. 

“On his cot, just sitting there. His CHU mate came back from guard duty late and found him dead, not sure why he never called out for help. We confirmed the CHU mate’s story, he was up in tower for over twelve hours. I just don’t understand how this man managed to get shot in the middle of Q pod, and no one reported it.” 

“Q pod, hmm, what number?” Sherlock asks, checking the man’s hands. They were washed, but there are clear signs of blood beneath the fingernails, he had tried to stop the bleeding. 

“Q25, you have something?” Lestrade tries to look where Sherlock is, but sees nothing of note. 

“Hmm, it wasn’t murder, at least not intentionally,” Sherlock flicks off his gloves and tosses them in the bin, what a boring case. “The man was sitting in his CHU when the bullet took him through the side. Unluckily for him, the only one to hear him call for help was the man that shot him. In the building attached to him an officer was cleaning their service pistol. The idiot forgot to properly clear the chamber and shot the man next door. Q pod is known for being officer’s alley, most work day shift so no one heard what happened. The one who shot him left the area and went to work, hoping to avoid suspicion. It will be a high ranking American officer with a Masters or PHD, someone that was given a high-rank with very little military experience.” 

“Christ, really?” Lestrade baulks, this poor soldier died because some idiot wasn’t practicing proper gun safety. 

“Arrest whoever lives in the left pod, their weapon will still show carbon residue from firing, I doubt the person has had a chance to re-clean it,” Sherlock shrugs. He grabs his box out of the fridge and heads for the door. 

“That’s it, you don’t want to help us find him?” Lestrade raises a brow in question, used to Sherlock running all over the base to catch a criminal. 

“I would rather sit in my office and test these,” Sherlock holds up his box, “ then wander about in this heat while a dust storm kicks up outside.”

Lestrade chuckles at that, his wings shifting with mirth, “Yeah I can see your point, just try and leave the lab be for a bit, eh? I thought that entomologist was going to punch you in the face, and that old man is one of the most laid back Full-Birds I’ve ever met.”

“I won’t make any promises,” Sherlock grins, whisking out the door. 

He heads down the main hall to where the floor dips into the officer offices. He shouldn’t actually have an office down here as a Lieutenant, but Lestrade gave up his space in an effort to keep Sherlock from bugging someone with less patience. 

As he’s walking he hears the tell-tale screech of the incoming siren, but ignores it. The hospital is under a steel blast roof and surrounded by concrete barricades, there is very little a cold-war era RPG is going to do. The woman’s robotic voice over the intercom is so grating, the sharp crackle of “Incoming! Incoming!” 

Sherlock hears the grind of creaking metal just before a form slams into his back. “Get down, you sodding idiot,” a voice yells in his ear as a small body presses him into the linoleum. It hurts, Sherlock can feel his primaries getting twisted in all directions. He wants to elbow the - surprisingly British - soldier in the face, but the whole hospital is ringing in alarm. There is a distinctive whine of an impacting missile, a sound Sherlock would know anywhere, and the building is roaring with destruction. 

When the man against his back, finally gets up, the noise of breaking has been replaced with frantic orders and SITREPS being called up and down the hallway. Sherlock sits up stiffly, taking in the surrounding area. The blast had hit further away, but it had clearly been an active round. Shrapnel points tore jagged holes in the wall, and there is a particularly large gash in the wall right where his head would have been if he hadn’t been shoved to the ground. 

He is still staring at the hole in the wall when the man shakes his shoulder. “You alright mate, nothing broken?” 

Sherlock turns to him. The man is in British PCS, with three Captain stars on his chest and a medical insignia on his shoulder. He’s small and compact with rugby shoulders, which is probably why his tackle had been so jarring. His wings are barely noticeable behind his back, the small grey things that mark the unbonded. His name tag reads ‘Watson’. 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock swallows through the words, “ Thank you.” 

“You always get down when the incoming siren sounds, Lieutenant Holmes, I don’t care where you are,” the man orders, his voice switching from a Doctor’s caring tone to a Captain’s orders, it’s an intriguing change. 

“Yes, I’ll remember that,” Sherlock says. He catches the man’s eyes when he looks up, they’re a pale blue, probably made lighter in the desert sun. 

The locking of eyes is essential for the connection of every bond, it’s something Sherlock learned in Primary school, which makes the time it takes him to catch on rather embarrassing. His back already hurts from his disarrayed primaries, so when sharp pain shoots down his shoulder blades, he thinks he may have broken one of the sensitive feathers. 

He does not realize what is happening until he sees the pain mirrored in Captain Watson’s face. The man doubles over, his foot-long wings stretched wide open. They shake with the pain of sudden growth, and Sherlock feels the same pain radiating through his form. He curls into himself, trying to fight off the muscles spasms. When the pain reaches it peak, he thinks he blacks out for an instant. 

When Sherlock comes back into his mind, his back and chest aches with the sudden change. He knows that his secondary lungs have now filled, that his ribs have widened to accommodate larger, deeper breaths. He knows his heart has enlarged relative to his new wings, he can feel the organ pumping wildly in his chest, sending blood into the new growth. 

He feels ill and exhausted, he just wants to lay in the floor and sleep, but Sherlock struggles up to look at his...mate. 

Captain Watson looks equally exhausted as he sits back, his new wings flair limply to either side, and they are massive. 

Sherlock is staring wide-eyed, because while he has wanted to meet his mate as soon as he knew one existed, he had never honestly believed that he would meet a mate compatible enough to produce flight worthy wings. Sherlock struggles to stand, and when he can’t he settles for flaring his wings out behind him. His back screams in protest, the muscles needing time to build and repair, but he must know, must see. 

“Holy Shite,” the Captain curses, looking behind Sherlock. 

Sherlock grins, and turns his head to look. The wings are so wide he can not comfortable spread them in the hall, but he can judge about fifteen-feet in length. They are three feet longer than the longest wings Sherlock has ever seen. The undersides are white with bars of black. The tops are a dark grey with more black bars along the tips of his primaries and secondaries. It takes him a moment to recognize the wing pattern, but when does he turns a true smile on the man that saved his life. 

They breath together, awed at the physical proof of how strong their bond will be. “Harpy Eagle,” they say together, admiring the plumage of one of the largest eagles in existence. 

 

“Dr. Watson!” a young soldier comes running up to them. His top has been haphazardly pulled on, fitting awkwardly around his fluttering grey wings. “OH!” he exclaims, “congrats Captain, but we need you in the lab.” The soldier, whose tag reads Murray, helps the doctor to his feet. 

Watson is unsteady with the new weight on his back, the wings are heavy and his new muscles struggle to shift them into a comfortable resting place. “Here,” Watson offers his own hand to Sherlock, even though Murray would be a better choice. 

Sherlock takes the offered hand, grasping tightly to his forearm. He has spent years overcoming his body’s complaints, and gotten even better in basic training, but his shoulders twinge as he folds the gigantic wings against his back. 

They lean on each other as they move down the hallway. Its only as they reach their destination that he has the presence of mind to properly introduce himself, “Its Sherlock Holmes, by the way.” 

“Ah, John Watson,” the man chuckles, color flushing his cheeks in embarrassment for forgetting.

“5th Northumberland Fusiliers?” Sherlock asks. 

“Yeah, mostly working front range emergency medicine, they’ll keep me on base with these hulking things though,” John grins, ruffling his wings. “Who are you with then?”

“221 Provost Platoon, Royal Military Police,” Sherlock answered, resisting the urge to preen. “We’re a specialist squad that goes from base to base solving crimes.” 

“Wouldn’t think there would be much call for that out here.”

“You’d be surprised,” Sherlock smiles, but it drops from his face when they come to the door of the lab. The wall beside the door is a filled with shrapnel holes. There is a steady whoosh of a burst water main, the evidence of it pouring out under the door, but instead of just water it is a veritable ocean of blood. 

“Ahh, Christ,” John curses, pushing himself up so he is standing on his own. 

They go through the door together, Sherlock trailing behind. 

“Holy Shit!” Sgt. Hunt’s voice yells clearly from behind the wall. “Good thing I actually listened to the Incoming siren,” the man laughs as he struggles out from under the desk. His uniform is soaked and covered in blood, but he seems fine. 

John walks up to him and has the man sit down so he can make sure he is okay. He checks pupil dilation and reaction time with a penlight from his jacket. Sgt. Hunt is shaking, his wings flexing with adrenaline, but he appears fine. 

Sherlock walks around the table, his boots splashing in the bloody water as he peers into the main lab. There is a CBC machine with a hole in its side and an old RXL analyzer with smoke coming out of the screen. The RPG round is just a pile of smoldering shrapnel in the floor. The ceiling has been torn open to the dusty desert sky above. The round had managed to hit the one part of the hospital not protected under the blast roof. 

The source of the blood, forces an ill timed giggle from Sherlock. The first plate of glass in the lab’s blood fridge has been shattered, though the second plate is surprisingly still standing, but the concussive blast from the round burst at least thirty units. There is now thirty pints of blood mixing with the water main, making the entire lab look like the scene of a massacre. 

John lets out a chuckle as he comes up beside him. “We got all the SITREPS in, no one was injured. It’s a bloody miracle.” 

“Captain,” Sgt Murray calls from behind, drawing their attention. “I talked to Colonel about er…” he gestures in their direction. 

“I’m not needed?” John asks. 

“No, sir. They are calling in help from some of the detachments, there is just a bunch of clean up and moving to do, Colonel wants you to report at 0800 tomorrow,” Murray answers. 

“Thank you Sergeant,” John claps Murray on the soldier, Sherlock can see they are old friends, comrades in arms. 

“Should we go to my CHU? I don’t have to share it,” Sherlock suggests, he can tell by John’s socks that he shares his quarters. 

“That’d be great” John grins. 

Sherlock leads the way back to the pods. The dust storm is just getting started, dust clogging his nose, but not too thick to be impossible to see through. They both fall coughing into his room. 

“Ahh, sorry about the mess,” Sherlock says as he kicks some stray gear under his cot.

“You’re kind of an odd duck aren’t you?” Johns asks as he looks over the pictures pinned to his wall, different murders from London. Sherlock has been collecting unsolved cases for when his contract ends in a year and he can return home, some of the cases he has even managed to solve abroad. 

“I was working as a consulting detective before I joined,” Sherlock murmured, the flutter in his chest almost feels like nervousness. 

“You don’t really seem the sort, I haven’t heard an accent that posh since I left London,” John grins, he looks interested, no signs of anger. 

Sherlock takes a moment to think of his response, “I was given a choice, the Army seemed the better option.” 

“Oh,” John murmurs, but doesn’t ask him to elaborate. 

“Um, sit, please,” Sherlock gestures to his cot. 

“Ta,” John takes a seat, carefully rearranging his wings so they settle on the other side of the cot. He looked at the wall of murder photos and the mess that was his foot locker, his wings occasionally twitching in nervousness.

Sherlock watched him, reading as much about the man as he could from the callouses on his fingers to the way he held himself. It was uncomfortable, being in the tiny room with no idea what to talk about, so, as usual, Sherlock broke the silence with the first thing that popped into his head. “You know, in older times we would have celebrated the bonding by taking first flight,” he mutters. 

“Less and less people are capable of flight now a days, bonding flights are hardly common,” John says, but he has a gleam in his eye. 

“You joined the Army after Medical school because nothing was exciting enough, even becoming a combat surgeon. You are a trained doctor and a Captain, you should never be outside of the gates, but you frequently travel in convoys and into the villages. You thrive on danger and the idea of flying is as exciting for you as it is for me. Is the dust too much of a challenge?” Sherlock blurts, his wings are held high above his head, a taunt. 

“How did you?” John blinks. He stands back up, his own wings held in challenge. 

“I told you, I’m a detective.” 

“That’s amazing,” he grins. 

“So tell me Captain,” Sherlock holds out his hand, “Do you want to fly?”

“Oh god, yes!” 

They scramble out of the hut. Sherlock unfurls his wings, stretching them out to their full length for the first time. In this wind, with his wings out, it is barely a flap to leap onto the roof of the next building. John is beside him in an instant, wings wide and beautiful in the gathering storm. 

Sherlock flaps his wings, feeling the strain of his muscles and the rapid pumping of his heart. The warm desert wind boosts him into the air. 

John is at his side, his wings working just as hard, but John is all compact muscle and restrained strength. His wings take him quicker into the air and he hits an updraft that carries him higher. 

Not to be outdone, Sherlock works harder, shifting the flexor muscles of his back until it hurts. 

“This is insane,” John calls over the roar of the wind, but his face is filled with childish glee.

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock teases. He finds his own updraft, the warm wind swirling him into the air until he is matched with John. They are high enough up that they can no longer see the housing units through the sand, but that hardly gives an accurate account of how far they have gone. 

“So did you,” John says, and then he kisses him. 

They are in the air in a dust storm, flying for the first time. John’s lips are dry and cracked and he can’t control his hover enough to deepen the kiss, so they keep smashing noses. 

Its probably the best kiss Sherlock has ever had. Its startling, because for some reason Sherlock had never put bond mate and kissing in the same thought process, he was always thinking about his wings, but now - oh the experiments! 

“Want to dive?” he can’t help but ask, pulling away from the kiss. 

“Race you,” John smirks and folds his wings up without hesitation. 

Sherlock watches him drop, the angle of his body as he races towards earth is perfect, like an eagle on the hunt. With a laugh, he folds his own wings spearing through the air with equal grace. 

In the storm and the sand, there is only the two of them, bond mates soaring for the first time. It is a test of trust and strength and, in their case, a bit of madness. Sherlock watches John’s strong back as he levels his flight, barely avoiding a building, and thinks about sharing his London with a man that would fly in an Afghani dust storm with nary a hesitation. 

“This just might work,” he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wanted to write wingfic, but this story was not at all what I expected to happen. This is a surprisingly accurate reflection of my time in Iraq, not counting the magical realism of course. The RPG that took out our blood fridge really did burst 30 units and created what looked like a slasher film, but no one was injured. 
> 
> Oh and the poor guy that got his kidney shot out because some idiot wasn't paying attention when they were cleaning out their gun, didn't die. They stabilized him and sent him home, we kept the bits of kidney in a jar in the lab for months, I never did know why. 
> 
> CHU: Combat Housing Unit (They are actually single-wide trailers split into three separate units and shared between two people)  
> PCS: Personal Combat System (The British version of the ACU)  
> Full-Bird: Army speak for Full-bird Colonel  
> SITREP: Situational Report  
> RPG: Rocket Propelled Grenade (Those launched in Iraq and Afghanistan are usually old cold war stuff stolen from Russia, and it really is a surprise when they actually manage to blow up)


	4. Golden Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade has a gift for seeing the connections between people, but he's still not sure if he regrets seeing the connections between Sherlock Holmes.

Golden Steel

Lestrade’s gift is for connections, he hasn’t met his mate yet, so its a sad and weak thing. Still, as a police officer it is useful to sometimes tell how people are connected or how they will be. He doesn’t always see them, but when he does, he sees the bonds as multi-colored strings tying people together.

When he first meets Sherlock Holmes, the man has one of the strongest bonds he has ever seen. It’s bright gold, shinning like the sun, and loops around his right hand before disappearing off into the distance. Due to the color and strength of the connection, Lestrade is hardly surprised to see the bonded mark on Sherlock’s palm. 

“For God’s sake, of course it wasn’t the husband, look at the man.” Sherlock scowls, standing over the body of Mrs. Harrow and gesturing at the husband they are taking away in cuffs. 

“Get off of this crime scene you freak,” Detective Donovan yells at him, just barely stopping herself from bodily tossing him out of the area. 

“Now hold on,” Lestrade says, stepping between them before a fight kicks up. While the man looks rather manic, he is dressed in an expensive suit and a long coat that looks about the same price as his car. He can feel a possible connection building, and he long ago learned to listen to his gift. “Please, explain yourself, sir.”

The man gives him an assessing look, blue-grey eyes flicking over his person like a scanner. He offers his right hand to shake, which is when Lestrade catches his first look at the unusual mark, a glowing caduceus with the snakes coiled around a biohazard symbol. “Sherlock Holmes,” he introduces himself. “The man you are trying to arrest for murder, was not at home during the time of death. He was at work, sleeping with his secretary. He has a smudge of lipstick on his collar, the light orange shade is not one Mrs. Harrow would have worn.”

“That seems like motive to kill his wife,” Lestrade points out, but he looks over at Mr. Harrow and notices the lipstick. He can’t tell if there are any connections, none of them are strong enough. 

“No, no, look,” Sherlock huffs, gesturing at the body. “Mrs. Harrow was poisoned, powdered belladonna in her coffee. Her neighbor, Mrs. Williams, uses small doses of belladonna to treat her arthritis, she used a deadly amount this morning to kill Mrs. Harrow. Belladonna’s first effect is paralysis, she could not move to call for help.”

Lestrade had talked to Mrs. Williams, she was a kindly, old lady that walked with a stoop and a cane. “That’s ridiculous,” Lestrade exclaims. “Get this man off my crime scene.” 

Sally moves to gleefully complete the order, but Sherlock has one last tidbit to add. “You’ll find the powder in Mrs. William’s house, and check the bottom of the mug for residue. When you find I’m right I will be at 221B Baker Street.” With that, the man sweeps out of the crime scene as quickly as he had appeared. 

By the next day, Lestrade has found the poison, tested the residue, and gotten Mrs. Williams to confess. Apparently, the two had been fighting over the neighborhood best garden award of all things. 

Lestrade heads over to Baker Street with his metaphorical tail tucked between his legs. 

An older woman answers the door with a “You must DI Lestrade.” She introduces herself as ‘Mrs. Hudson, I’m the landlady, dear, not the housekeeper.’ She has a dark mark on her hand from a broken bond, her connection curls jagged around her arm like black barbwire, but she has a warm orange strand that disappears upstairs, and Lestrade’s pretty sure she’s less landlady and more Sherlock’s adopted mother. 

He trudges up the stairs, determined to apologize with some dignity, but he’s stopped dumb by the sight that greets him at the top of the stairs. 

Sherlock is dressed in an old, blue dressing gown with safety goggles over his eyes and a propane torch in his hand. His hair is a riot of curls and he looks exactly like the telly version of a mad scientist escaped from the mental ward. 

“Ah, Detective Inspector, found the belladonna,” Sherlock smirks, tugging the goggles up so they rest on the top of his head. 

“Yes, I wanted to ask you some questions about that. I assume you have a gift for it,” Lestrade says, his decision to apologize thrown out the window. 

Sherlock hums in agreement before gesturing Lestrade into the kitchen; where either a science experiment is taking place or a demon summoning, it could go either way. “I am a consulting detective, my gift deals with seeing connections in the most minute of details and deducing their meaning from there. I would consider consulting with Scotland Yard on some of their more interesting cases.” Sherlock makes the offer like a king granting a boon, but Lestrade sees it for the play it is. 

“A consulting detective, eh. I’m not sure Scotland Yard takes consultants,” Lestrade comments. 

Sherlock shoots him a murderous glare, but quickly brushes it away. “Well, when you have a case where you find yourself out of your depth, give me a call,” he says, offering over a rather creased business card. 

“Will do,” Lestrade slips the card into his wallet, where he expects to forget about it until the next time he cleans the damn thing out. As he is leaving the flat, Lestrade realizes he didn’t see Sherlock’s bondmate, but assumes whoever they are may be at work. He leaves Baker street without glancing back, never expecting to return. 

Two weeks later a construction crew pulls four mummified bodies and a living cat out of a brick wall. The bodies are identified as four completely unrelated missing persons that only disappeared within the last month. The coroner hasn’t the faintest clue how they were murdered or how they were mummified. 

After a few days Lestrade is so confused and frustrated that a dark blue cord of desperation suddenly appears from his chest and stretches across London. Lestrade is stubborn, but not an idiot, he breaks down and makes the call. 

***

Sherlock’s gift is one of the most potent Lestrade has ever seen. It works constantly and he can never turn it off. Lestrade has meet people with constant gifts but they often turn to drug or drink to drown it out. 

He keeps an eye out for drug use, because Sherlock is always balancing between manic and sulk, but other than repeated failed attempts at quitting smoking, he seems clean. What is strange is that in the three years since he started working with the man, he has never met his bondmate. 

Sally, who has an almost irrational hatred for the man, claims that Sherlock is such a narcissistic sociopath that he bonded with himself, but Lestrade knows thats crap. He can still see the golden bond like a steel cable, at least until the day it goes black. 

They are standing over another homicide, a twenty-six year old asian female that dropped dead in the middle of the street with no visible cause of death. Lestrade is still scratching his head over it when Sherlock shows up. 

It’s a warm summer day, but Sherlock is still dressed to the nines in his outrageous coat. “This is hardly a three, honestly Lestrade,” Sherlock sighs, looking over the body like a put upon child. 

“Well then you take some time out of your _busy_ day to elaborate,” Lestrade huffs, over the years he’s gained some immunity to Sherlock’s particular brand of snark. 

Sherlock opens his mouth to begin one of his usual tirades, but instead he gasps. His eyes go wide with shock and his knees weaken beneath him. He collapses into a heap, clenching at his left shoulder. 

“Sherlock!” Lestrade shouts, running over to the man. At first, he is worried that he has been struck down by whatever killed their Jane Doe, but then he sees the golden bond. It has always been strong and unfailing, but now the cord is flickering rapidly between gold and black. Sherlock’s mark is also flickering, the steady glow of the caduceus fades to a pale blue. 

“John, John,” Sherlock is gasping, wheezing while clutching at his shoulder, his grip is white-knuckle tight and it looks like he is about to wrench his own shoulder out of socket. 

“It’ll be okay, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, though he doesn’t know if he believes it. “Where is your mate? I’ll send a car and an ambulance.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Won’t help,” he reaches into his coat and hands Lestrade is phone. “Call the second number, tell him Vatican Cameos.” 

Lestrade wants to ask questions, but there is no time. He calls the second number on the phone, listed simply as Mycroft. A male voice answers after the first ring, “To what do I owe this call too, brother mine?”

Lestrade stares at the phone for a second, and he thought Sherlock was posh. “Um…” he stuttered, “Vatican Cameos.” 

“I’ll send a car immediately, stay put,” Mycroft, he guesses, says over the phone and then the dial tone sounds as the man hangs up. 

“Friendly, that one,” Lestrade comments as he hands the phone back over. He doesn’t mean to joke, but he’s nervous and has no idea how to offer comfort to Sherlock Holmes of all people. 

A long black car that just screams ‘government vehicle’ shows up in minutes. A middle-aged man in a three-piece suit steps from the car and hurries to Sherlock’s side. “I put out a call to SAS, they are hunting down Dr. Watson as we speak,” the man says, helping Sherlock to stand. 

“He’s been shot in the shoulder, and there is something wrong with his leg,” Sherlock grits between clenched teeth as he is bundled into the car. 

“Take care, mate,” Lestrade calls after them, but he is ignored as the car drives off.

Lestrade sends a series of text messages to Sherlock to make sure he is alright, but the idiot detective isn’t responding and he is not at Baker Street. He does receive a message from an unknown number that say “If brother has green ladder, arrest brother.” The text makes zero sense, but its exactly the sort of thing Sherlock would send. Sure enough, the woman does have an older brother that, for whatever reason, owns a green ladder. 

It is only in the interrogation room that the man admits to killing his sister’s mate, an abusive asshole apparently. Unfortunately, the bond was still strong enough to result in the death of his sister. The brother had not known about her death and ended up in tears, poor sod. When Lestrade wrote up the case he recommended leniency from the judge. 

It is nearly two months later when he sees Sherlock again. Lestrade is working a case with Anderson and Donovan. They had just gotten their third body in weeks, killed by a single stab wound through the sternum, but each victim had their bond arm chopped off. While Lestrade would have to be blind not to see the connection between the bodies, he has no evidence and no lead to follow. 

“You’re not going to text him, are you?” Anderson whines. “We have this, the killer will make a mistake.” 

“Sir, he may not even show up. That freak is probably doing this himself, lost his mind,” Donovan adds. 

“Sally,” Lestrade glares, because you should never joke about losing a bond mate, even if she can’t see the strength of the bond Sherlock shared. 

“Sorry, sir,” She mutters and goes off to gather evidence. 

Lestrade shoots off the text once their gone. He knows Sherlock isn’t on a murdering rampage, but he’s not even sure the man is still alive, if something happened to the mysterious John, he’s certain the backlash wouldn’t bode well. 

Thankfully, he receives a text from Sherlock, “10 minutes - SH”. 

Ten minutes later, he is standing outside the caution tape waiting for the man. Normally, he would let Sally or one of the constables let him in, but he’s not in the mood for the hostility. 

When the cab pulls up, Sherlock and another man get out. The other man is shorter, with blondish-grey hair and his left arm in a sling. There a gold bond like a steel cable between them, so bright it’s hard to look at. 

“You must be John,” Lestrade grins, beyond pleased to see the man he has never met.

“Ah yes, did Sherlock mention me?” John asks shooting a bewildered look at his mate. 

“Detective Lestrade, is not the worst at his job, he made a deduction, no matter how mundane,” Sherlock drawls, but he looks pleased. Lestrade always thought the man strutted about crime scenes like he owned them, but now he is really preening, head held high in some bizarre mating dance. 

“Hmm,” Lestrade coughs, “as he said. It’s good to see you are alright, Sherlock gave us all a fright when he fell over.” 

“Yes, I ahh…” John clenches his free hand, displaying the bond mark, “I got shot.” 

“John is an Army Doctor, he was in Afghanistan,” Sherlock brags, “now show me to the body.” Sherlock shoulders his way under the tape and unerringly toward the scene of the crime, John follows after with an exaggerated eye roll. 

Lestrade decides he quite likes John. 

Sherlock crawls all over the scene in his usual manner, picking up bits of trash and debris that no one thought to investigate. “He knows each victim, it’s obviously jealousy over his lack of bond, but why these individuals, what made him choose them? Hmm.”

John stays back, watching with interest beside Lestrade. “Do you think he knows them personally or just acquaintances?” John asks.

Sherlock jumps up, eyes wide, “Oh!” He steps forward and places a rather embarrassing kiss on John’s lips. “Brilliant, John. Oh, I have missed you.” Sherlock grins wildly and runs off with John trailing after, an indulgent sort of smile on his lips. 

“Oy, wait!” Lestrade calls after them, stunned, but Sherlock has summoned a cab with his usual skill and is off without a word of explanation. “Shite,” he cusses, watching them drive away. 

“I can’t believe he’s actually bonded, does explain that crazy mark though,” Sally comments, stepping up to Lestrade’s side. 

“A biohazard Caduceus could not be anymore fitting for that pair, a consulting detective and an army doctor,” Lestrade shakes his head, now all he has to do is figure out where they went. 

“What do you think his gift is, that blond fellow?” Anderson asks. 

“Insanity or patience would be my guess,” Sally grumbles. 

Lestrade can’t help but chuckle at that, even if he’s certain John’s gift is a little stronger than that. Sometimes gifts are small things, like Anderson who can see underwater or Sally with perfect pitch, but sometimes gifts are amazing skills. Sherlock’s gift would rank pretty high on the scale, it’s only reasonable that his mate’s would as well. 

“I’m heading back to the Yard, I need to see if I can track down those two idiots.” Lestrade decides to walk back, its not far and he doesn’t feel right taking one of the police cars for just himself. He’s barely gone a few yards when the phone box in front of him starts ringing. He ignores it, but by the third ringing phone, he gives in and answers. “Hello?”

“Detective Lestrade, get in the car, please,” a male voice tells him. At first Lestrade freezes, certain he is being kidnapped, but that voice is oddly familiar. “Mycroft?” he asks. 

“Ahh, good you remember, please get in the car,” Mycroft says. His voice is mild, but that only makes the whole experience seem more sinister. Still, he gets into the black sedan that’s pulled up alongside the booth. 

There is a gorgeous woman tapping away on her phone sitting in the back, but he’s too nervous to try chatting her up. Instead, they sit in uncomfortable silence before he is dropped at a fancy building in the capital district. 

“First office on the right,” the woman says, never looking up from her phone. 

“Right,” Lestrade says, and with nothing else to do, follows the directions. The building has that stuffy government feel, but there is no sign that indicates where, exactly, he is. The first office on the right, however, does hold one Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade only met him briefly, but he looks exactly the same - three-piece suit and all. 

“That was a little dramatic, don’t you think, but then again I do know your kid brother,” Lestrade remarks, a wry twitch to his lips. 

“Yes, well,” Mycroft huffs, brushing imaginary wrinkles from his suit as he stands. “I needed to speak to you without my brother’s interference, though with John back, he is somewhat distracted.” 

“Interesting fellow, that John. I can see how he and Sherlock are bonded.” Lestrade takes a look around the office, but the desk is so clean and books on the shelf so dull that he’s almost positive this isn’t Mycroft’s real office. “What did you wish to speak to me about?”

“While I trust John implicitly, he and my brother have been bonded since they were sixteen and the amount of trouble my brother can get into alone is almost doubled with Dr. Watson around, I simply wish for you to keep a, shall we say … weathered eye on the pair.”

Lestrade shudders, “That’s a frightening thought, I wouldn’t think it possible. Is that John’s gift?” he laughs. “To attract trouble so Sherlock isn’t bored.” He shuts his mouth with a click after that; it’s extremely rude to ask about gifts, especially when the person being talked about isn’t there. 

“No, Dr. Watson’s skills lie elsewhere,” Mycroft chuckles, and Lestrade is inexorably pleased to have made the man laugh. “I can trust you then, Detective, to keep an eye on them,” Mycroft steps around his desk and offers his hand to Lestrade. 

His palm is unmarked, and Lestrade is rather curious what this man’s gift is. His only visible bond is a green familial one, that he suspects connects to his brother. “I’ve been keeping an eye on him since we met, but I promise to try and keep them out of some trouble.” Lestrade takes his hand, and gasps when a jolt shoots up his arm and his sight is blinded with splashes of colour. He stumbles away from the grip, his heart pounding as he tries to get air into his lungs. 

“Oh,” Mycroft breathes, as if he hasn’t just been struck by lightening. 

Lestrade shoots a glare at the man, and is almost blinded again. Where before Mycroft had only had the single connection, suddenly the man is a riot of thin connections. He looks like a spider at the center of a web, thousands of lines connecting him across London, Britain, and the world. 

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asks, his brow beetling in the slightest hint of concern. He helps Lestrade to sit in a plush, old chair that nearly swallows him up. 

“Bit of a headache,” he admits, rubbing at his temple. The flash on his palm distracts him. He pulls his hand away to look at his palm, where a glowing blue rune of the justice scales are now etched. “I don’t bloody believe it,” he’s honestly awed. Nearly forty-years old, and he meets his soul mate in the older brother of his obnoxious consulting detective. 

Mycroft offers him the smallest of smiles, more of a quirking of lips really. 

They are interrupted by a security officer bursting into the office. “I’m sorry to burst in, sir, but there’s been an incident with your brother.” 

Mycroft sighs, “Of course, there is.” 

***

Sherlock and John had tracked the killer down to a Tesco-express, of all places, and because Sherlock has all the subtlety of a nuclear bomb, the man did not react well. 

Lestrade and Mycroft take one of those government black sedans to the scene, where Lestrade is expecting to have to diffuse a hostage situation. He jumps out of the car ready to face anything. There are police cars and an ambulance already in place, but the police officers aren’t in position for SWAT. Instead, they are talking to shaking shoppers, taking notes or guiding the elderly to get looked at by the paramedics. 

“What happened here?” he asks Sally, as soon as he sees her. 

“The freak got a gun turned on him when he confronted the killer,” she growls, furious. “Lucky for that idiot, his mate jumped in the way and took the man down before he even knew what happened. He broke the killer’s wrist in the process, but other than that everyone is okay.” 

“He did what?” Lestrade gasps, though he’s not sure why he is surprised. 

“Ahh, I meant to mention that earlier,” Mycroft steps up beside him when Sally goes off to get more statements. “John’s gift, he’s a Guardian.” 

“A what!?” Lestrade just stops himself from shouting. Guardians are extremely rare, a unique individual with multiple gifts. In general a Guardian not only boosts the gift of their mate, but also has a skill for different protective gifts such as perfect aim or fast reflexes. A Guardian would also be the best match for a man like Sherlock, who apparently needs protection attached to him 24/7. 

“Well that’s unfortunate, I almost tolerated you,” Sherlock drawls, suddenly appearing beside them. He glances at the shared marks and shoots his brother a glare, “ _My detective_ , did you have to?” 

“I hardly did it to spite you, Sherlock, you know it’s a random variable,” Mycroft responds, but he sounds rather smug about the matter.

“If anyone could control a bond it would be you Mycroft,” John quips. He looks completely fine, unruffled by the take down of a serial killer. His arm is even still in the sling. He turns his gaze to Lestrade and gives an apologetic shrug - which isn’t a gesture Lestrade even thought possible. “Sorry about that, we were just going to ask the man questions about his usual customers, we didn’t expect him to have a gun at work of all places.” 

“I suppose not, but you two shouldn’t have gone harrowing off without back-up! How hard is it to tell me what is going on?” Lestrade yells at them. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, his headache is getting worse. His gift is going haywire, he can see connection lines all over the place, everything from the slimmest fishing line to the massive thing binding the two idiots before him. 

“We’ll work on that,” John says, even as Sherlock shoots him a dirty look. 

“John’s tired,” Sherlock shoulders into the conversation. “He’s still recovering, we’re going home. Your case is solved now.” 

“I have no patience for this right now, but I swear to god if you two aren’t at Baker street at 0900 tomorrow for a proper statement then I’m throwing you in jail for obstruction, got it.” 

“Yes, sir,” John gives a jaunty salute, before they wander off, shoulders pressed together. 

“This is going to be a disaster isn’t it?” he gripes. 

“Chances are high,” Mycroft responds, but he sounds amused. “Coffee?”

Lestrade turns to him, bug-eyed, “What?”

“Would you care to get coffee… with me?” Mycroft actually sounds nervous, of all things. 

“This incident is going to have me neck deep in paperwork, I don’t think I can just wander off to get coffee,” is his immediate reply, but he feels like a jerk - this is his mate. 

“You won’t, have much paperwork that is, it’s being taken care of.” 

Lestrade begins to makes his own deductions as he looks the man over. “What do you do exactly?”

“I occupy a minor position in the British government,” is his answer. 

Lestrade’s never heard a bigger load of bollocks in his life, but instead of calling him out on it, he offers his arm with a grin. “I’d love a coffee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love outsider POV and have always wanted to write one, so this my attempt. It was also a good practice with writing dialog, I skill I'm horrible at. Either way, hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> This was partially inspired by the Johnlock fic Five Years Prior, if you haven't read it, I highly recommend it.


	5. Holmesless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every one in the world is born with one half of a Soul Metal, the other half leading to their soulmate, but while living on the dangerous streets of London, the Holmes brothers have other issues to worry about.

This story has gotten out of control and has been moved to : http://archiveofourown.org/works/2055813?view_full_work=true


End file.
